The boy was standing on the hill, overlooking his village. It was early in the morning, and the sun was just awakening, peaking over the distant mountains, to cast away the darkness. The red-gold rays of sunshine shot down at him, basking him in a halo-like glow that any angel would be proud of. He looked down and saw the people in the streets. He saw his friends, laughing as they ran, dodging the angry parents whose pies were stolen. He saw his parents, watching in amusement, as they knew that no kids were going to steal their pies. He had tried it before, the boy though ruefully, and did not want to try again. He saw his sister, young and beautiful, and all the older boys gawking at her, trying to win her affection and attention. He knew she didn t care about any of them; they were just sources of amusement, playthings that she would throw away when she found a new one. He saw it all. He remembered everything.
And then it all snapped back, and he saw the burning houses, the rotting corpses, and the torn landscape. He smelled the burnt flesh and remembered the awful scene.
He had been sitting in the apple tree, far away, playing his flute. He loved music. He smiled as he remembered all the times he d played for his sister when she was dancing. He remembered that she loved to dance, and was going to try and be the best dancer ever. And then reality kicked in again, and he cried. He cried because he knew there was nothing he could have done, and nothing he could do now. He cried for the people he loved, and he cried for the people who were going to die. Once again, he remembered the killing. His sister had been raped by almost every man there, as had been most of the young women. The older women and children had been made watch as the men were systematically killed. There had been little resistance, as they had been taken completely by surprise, and there was nothing anybody could do.
The boy had stayed in the tree, knowing all the good he would accomplish was his own death. He knew that he had to survive, so that he could enlist the aid of warriors and heroes to help him rid the world of this evil scum.
The village had been completely cleaned out of anything remotely useful, and so the boy only had his flute, the clothes on his back, and the little money he always kept in his pocket. He turned around and prepared to depart the only home he had ever known. He looked back one last time, and took in everything he could. He tried to keep all the good memories, but the bad ones took their hold on him, and he could not let them go. He tried to remember it only as it was, but he could not. So, with one last glance at his village, still all aglow from the burning sun, he turned and went down the hill, to his awaiting destiny.
Ah, this is it. I may or may not contiue, depending on if I get any more ideas. This was kind of a spur-of-the-moment writing, so it's probably no good. Any comments and/or suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism, of course.